


Constellation

by artisticallyunwritten



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Each chapter less than fifteen hundred words maybe, F/M, Fluff, Romance, standalone chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-03 09:33:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1739792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artisticallyunwritten/pseuds/artisticallyunwritten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of unconnected drabbles based on Stiles and Lydia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Perfectly Horizontal

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hullo. Well, this is a basically a series of short, pointless, unconnected drabbles based on Stiles and Lydia. They will probably be less than fifteen hundred words and will feature Stiles and Lydia in different, unconnected scenarios. Basically, these will be a pure dosage of fluff. That is it. So without further ado.
> 
> Teen Wolf is not mine.

He is glaring at her with such ferocity that it is a surprise he hasn't burnt holes in her body, yet. The room is silent other than the sound of constant scratching of pen against paper as Lydia Martin continues to make notes on the "The Spiral Relation between Wage and Inflation" and the very deliberate, annoyed sighs that Stiles Stilinski lets out in uneven intervals.

"Stiles," she breaks the silence, eyes still on her notebook as she continues to write, "What does the graph depicting the price and demand relation in a demand-pull inflation looks like?"

"Perfectly horizontal," he growls. He is cradling his chin in his left palm, while his elbow rests on the table between them and his angry stare still doesn't waver.

Apparently all that glaring and sighing and growling doesn't earn enough merit to persuade Lydia to shift her attention from economics to the very frustrated and utterly confused boy opposite her. Because all he gets in reply is a sound somewhere between acknowledgment and uncaring, which Stiles can only hope meant thanks. And the idea that it could have meant thanks only adds to the aforementioned confusion and frustration.

Lydia, reaches out her hand to grab her ruler, when Stiles sees opportunity and smacks his palm on hers before she could retract it. That at least earns him visual acknowledgement. Before Lydia can open her mouth, Stiles interrupts her. "You know what a graph depicting the demand and price relation in a demand-pull economy looks like," he accuses.

Whatever Lydia was expecting, clearly, this wasn't it. She makes a show of blinking in surprise and promptly replies, "Well, now I know."

"I meant before," he says. Not the best of speakers, Stiles Stilinski. "I mean before you asked me," he clarifies, "you drew that graph in class today."

"Hmm. Did I?" Lydia pretends to ponder.

"Lydia, what are you doing?" He asks, his tone leaving the angry, frustrated zone and entering the territory of the confused and the helpless.

She looks towards her notebook, which has pages and pages adorned with her neat cursive handwriting, pointedly in reply. "Economics notes."

Stiles feels his patience slip. "You never do group studies," he growls again.

"Do you see a group," she gestures around them as they sit in the library, without, as she correctly pointed out, a group.

"Or take study partners," he adds, his voice betraying a bit of triumph.

"I don't take study partners with average intelligence." She corrects him, returning to making her economics diagrams perfected with color co-ordinated sticky notes.

"Well, that doesn't me–" He halts as his brain processes her words. "Hang on, is this your way of saying I am smart." He feels himself gain three ounces of self-esteem.

"No."

"No?" He deflates just as quickly.

Lydia just shakes her head, "If I wanted to tell you that you are smart, I would have just told you, you are smart." She meets his eyes again, and shrugs as she continues, "I have done it before."

Stiles has his eyes narrowed at this point and the muscles in his face have contracted and relaxed in a hundred different patterns giving him expressions each more confused and comical as the last. He opens his mouth to form a reply but in spite of all his very tedious attempts at opening and closing it, he doesn't manages to get his throat in co-ordination which his facial movements and emit a sound. That is how confused Stiles Stilinski is, excuse him.

Lydia rolls her eyes, "I have no qualms about your intelligence, Stiles." She informs him, "You are smart. I can straight up admit that. See. I am doing so right now." There is a hint of smile playing across her lips as Stiles tries to grab at something,  _anything_  that will help him make sense of the situation before him.

He finally sighs in defeat and bangs his head against the table in front of them. Leaving it there he takes in three deep breaths and counts till ten, praying for some sort of clue as to why Lydia Martin is sitting in the library with him in their free periods, making notes on a topic that must come painfully easy to her and most importantly, why was he dragged along hand in hand when Lydia Martin has never, not ever, appreciated company during her more serious study sessions.

He raises his head again and looks at her, only to find her biting her bottom lip and her eyes twinkling in sheer amusement. He sighs. "Okay Lydia," he begins to make yet another attempt, "Let's start this thing over," he smiles mockingly at her and she nods her head solemnly, acting as clueless as Stiles feels at this point.

"Do you think demand pull inflation is a topic worthy of spending your free period in a library for?" He asks, carefully choosing his words. This is difficult; he has never carefully chosen words, until now. Lydia opens her mouth to respond, but Stiles cuts her off, "And an answer with a yes or no will be much appreciated, thanks."

"No." She complies with his wishes.

Stiles might have been taken aback by her answer had he not anticipated it. Because of course demand-pull inflation isn't a topic worth wasting free periods over. In fact, in his very humble opinion, nothing in their academic scope is worth losing freedom over, but wasting precious hours over something as simple as basic inflation theories is bordering humiliation.

"Okay then," he continues, "Lydia, do you like having any company, specially spastic, hyperactive company around you while you are busy with school work?"

Lydia shakes her head dutifully without breaking eye contact. "No," she responds again, precisely.

"Then why," Stiles spreads his arms wide and hunches his shoulders a little as he implores, "are we sitting here, together, in the library, over a topic that doesn't even require color co-ordinated notes?"

"Hmm," she pretends to think as she cups her chin in her left hand while her elbow rests on the table, very accurately mimicking Stiles' position from earlier, "Why am I using my free period in a library where none of our friends would venture, sitting opposite a person with commendable intellect and trying to make idle conversation over a topic that is so elementary it is mortifying. Is that what you are trying to ask?"

Stiles has not quite processed what she had said, and he would have, if he were just given five added seconds. He would have, he swears, he would have.

"I don't know, Stiles. I have absolutely no idea." He can still trace amusement in her expression and he would have continued this conversation but as if on cue the bell rings, signaling the end of a free period, which Stiles is beginning to question was actually wasted.

He watches her saunter off towards to the exit doors. And the words click. They click. He rushes after her.

"Lydia, wait." He calls as he hurries behind her, "Lydia what does that – Lydia?"

By the time, he steps foot outside the library doors, Lydia Martin is lost in the sea of students at Beacon Hills High.


	2. Trial and Error

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teen Wolf isn't mine.

Six. Six places left, he decided as he identified the four people in the locker room, whom he was sure would make first line.

Scott. He was captain, he had the blessings of the wolfhood and screw it all to the withering roots of the Nematon, Stiles isn't playing if Scott doesn't make the team. Scott has to make the team. That leaves nine.

Then there was Kira. Athletic and strong and blessed with the powers of magic swords and electricity and foxes. Wolves and foxes on the team, Stiles could only imagine the number of games rules that would break. But having Kira during practices was fun. She takes misogyny, crams it up in a blender and blends it on maximum speed.

And sometimes, Stiles realized, Beacon Hills also produces normal human beings like Danny. Well, exceptionally well built for a high school kid, Danny. No really, what does that guy consume? Who even has physique like that in high school? Danny worries him sometimes. But he was making the team, that's for sure.

Stiles looked around the locker room, Davis Bradley. Dave, for short. He was the goalie. He was also incidentally the  _only_  goalie. Chart him up on the team then.

That leaves Six. Stiles sat on the bench in the locker room, bouncing his knee and watched Scott rummage inside his locker as Kira leaned beside him. He wanted to make the team this year, and the idea had sort of taken him by surprise. Sure, he was always fond of the game but never did Stiles Stilinski sit nervously before the trials analyzing his chances of being first line. He looked at the players left in the room and did quick comparisons. Morris, wasn't athletic enough and Matthews would always prioritize his chess club over Lacrosse practices. And wasn't Colby on probation already?

Stiles looked around nervously. He did stand a chance, didn't he? Come on, he did play that match last year, he was good in it. He scored several times. He wasn't as bad as everybody had anticipated him to be. Okay perhaps, he only got to play because Coach was absolutely desperate, he can concede that, but they did  _still_ win.

 _You might be a one match wonder,_  said a voice inside his head, which sounded annoyingly like himself.

Well, the coach doesn't know that, he tried to reason with pessimism.

_How are you going to keep that up in trials today, genius?_

Stiles decided that further negotiation with the sadist side of his brain was unnecessary. He doesn't need imaginary voices using sarcastic tones on him. Nobody needs sarcastic tones.

_You're the sarcastic tone._

Or painfully obvious tones.

He was fidgeting with his lacrosse stick. Picking it up, inserting his fingers through the weaving, pulling on the weaving, pulling on the weaving so hard that he hoped the ropes might break so he could walk away without making a complete fool of himself.

He looked at the door of the locker room with longing. He could just leave. As if the universe had decided to answer him, Lydia Martin walked through those right very doors and Stiles yelped and stood up like the bench had turned scalding hot.

Clearly he had made enough noise to attract attention. "Stiles!" Lydia exclaimed as he watched her walk towards him.

"Hey - hey Lydia," he tried to present himself as the picture of calm. Yeah, he has done this whole "make a fool of himself on trials and sit on the bench for the rest of the year" routine. Completely calm.

She came to stand facing him, her back to Scott and Kira. Girls do come into the locker room; that is nothing new. Girls other than Kira, he meant. They come to wish their boyfriends good luck, threaten them to not embarrass anyone, assure them that they will be watching them from the stands. But girls never come in to say that to Stiles. _That_  is pretty new.

"I came here to meet Kira," Lydia began. And just like that Stiles was brought out of his reverie. Of course, Kira. "And Scott," Lydia continued, looking two feet above his head. "And you," she added, "I mean, I heard you were giving trials –"

"Yeah, that's the masochist in me," Stiles tried to laugh it off as a joke, but perhaps he failed because Lydia was doing that uncomfortable smile that people do when the joke is not really funny but they are obligated to laugh. And well, it wasn't really a joke, if Stiles thinks about it. "I thought you were leaving early today," he attempted to change the topic, "mathematic test and all that."

Lydia nodded enthusiastically, glad for the change of subject. "Yeah, yeah I was," she told him, "It's just Kira is appearing for trials and you know, first girl on the team, I wanted to be here for her."

"Right," Stiles said awkwardly, rubbing his hands on his track shorts, "you don't need to worry about her though! She is great. She is definitely making the team." He tried to add as much enthusiasm in his voice as he possibly could.

Lydia just nodded, giving him half a smile. Oh God, since when did things get so awkward with Lydia? He racked his brain to say something,  _anything_  witty, except his head was too rattled by the trials to actually come up with something, so he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind, "Kira!" he exclaimed suddenly, making Lydia jump.

"Kira," he clarified softly, "you came to meet her, right?" He took whatever encouragement he could take from the jerky, slightly confused nod she gave him, "She is standing right behind you," he pointed. Christ, he was making it sound as if he didn't want to talk to Lydia, he should stop talking, he really,  _really_  should. But he had gone too far into this, to back out now so he just stood there, smiling and pointing at Kira like a fool.

"Right!" Lydia responds, "I should probably… yeah." She jerked her thumb behind her and pointed in the general direction of where Kira and Scott stood too immersed in their conversation to notice that Stiles is about ready to be consumed whole into the earth. Lydia turned away giving him a tight smile, that Stiles was sure will hurt her face later.

He thumped back down onto the bench as soon as the conversation died and sagged in embarrassment. He bounced his knee faster than ever and his fingers came up to pick nervously on his lips. He should really try to control his nerves, Stiles thought, if he wanted to make the team. He tried taking in deep breaths but they did about as much to help as his bouncing knee. And now, he had gone and been a complete idiot in front of Lydia and that is never a good omen.

Suddenly a hand came up on his knee to stop the movement. He looked up in surprise only to be met with Lydia's green eyes shining in half amusement and half understanding. He picked on his lips harder.

"You'll be fine," she said; bringing her other hand to stop him from abusing the skin on his lips any further. And then she left it there, her hand. On his.

"You think so?" he asked, his voice wavering out of nerves.

"Well, you were spectacular in that match, remember?" she reminded him, softly.

Stiles snorted, "One match wonder," he murmured his earlier thoughts.

"Oh you will be fine!" she responded, hints of impatience betrayed her tone making Stiles smile as he found himself in his normal territory with Lydia.

Stiles just nodded, eyes downcast. Removing her hand from his knee she brought it to his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Listen to me Stiles," her face was serious and her expression made it clear that she meant business, "I will be in the stands and I will cheer you on and you will make the team. This  _will_ happen."

There was silence as they stared at each other. And then suddenly, he heard someone in the distance who sounded spectacularly like coach scream about lazy asses and eternal torture and lacrosse trials.

"Good luck, Stiles," she said softly.

"Tha- Thanks!" he croaked in response.

Removing her hand from atop his, she used it to ruffle his hair and walked away smiling.


	3. Denim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This should have been updated two months ago. But then my laptop crashed and I lost all my data. I was the left working on Weaving Fantasies on four different, borrowed laptops. Then I didn't have MS Word when this came back. Well, long story short. This little thing is back. Also, this time around I will be taking prompts so if anybody would like to read something specific, drop me an ask in my tumblr askbox. Thankyou.
> 
> Teen Wolf isn't mine.

Stiles is always, at all times, in every moment of his life, completely, fully,  _properly_  aware that he has seen a lot of gore and bloodshed and has been part of the craziest, most threatening experiences in his short seventeen year old life. But at the end of the day, the simple, blatant and honest truth is that he is a teenager in high school. And he has got hormones. And a girlfriend. Now trust Stiles Stilinski, Lydia Martin can blow him away in whatever she wears. Blood red, body hugging, low cut dress? Stiles will probably not be able to take his eyes off her for as long as she is in it. Tank top and cotton shorts right before she hits the bed? And Stiles will have the goofiest grin clinging to his lips for the longest of times. Her usual floral skirts that she chooses to wear to school? Stiles Stilinski will fall for her all over again. And he has gotten used to his reactions to it. It's all part of his normal now.

So when Stiles' body does a double take, at the sight of his girlfriend wearing a pair of jeans, a simple black, full sleeve top with her hair cascading down her back, it's new. When was the last time he saw Lydia in jeans? Did she even  _own_  any jeans?  _His first game_ , he remembers. She was wearing jeans the night he played his first lacrosse match. But that was the only time Stiles had ever seen Lydia in denim in all their three years of high school.

So he stands there, literally in the middle of the hallway, not realizing that he is gaping like a fish. Lydia Martin in jeans has officially become his new favourite situation. Definitely. Lydia Martin in jeans is heaven's way to award him for all the times he had  _almost_  died. Lydia Martin in jeans is better than birthdays. Lydia Martin in jeans is better than Christmas. Lydia Martin in jeans in better than  _all his birthdays and Christmases put together multiplied by ten to the power of sixty eight._

He must be a special sort of perverted, he realizes, if watching his girlfriend in jeans is what's turning him on. Or maybe he is just too innocent. He snorts. Nope. Definitely not  _that_  innocent. Is he too perverted or is he too innocent. Perverted men don't appreciate women in jeans, do they? And if last night is anything to go by, he is definitely not innocent. No seriously, where does he lie on this innocent-perverted prism of existence.  _Innocent-perverted prism of existence_ , that's a good one, he realizes. He should keep it for a pack meeting. He clears his throat to settle his ever wandering thoughts.

He has absolutely no idea how, but the sound somehow reaches Lydia, and she suddenly turns around to look at him, openly staring at her, which he, realizes in an afterthought would be pretty embarrassing, so he tries to recollect his features as quickly as he possibly can. She slowly makes her way towards him and Stiles has known her long enough to know that her pace is deliberate. She crosses the three feet of distance between them so that both of them are left standing in the middle of the hallway, the mill of highschool students around them. Stiles wonders how long it will be before some irritated kid would ask them to move.

Suddenly she is standing much too close to him than is strictly appropriate in a school setting, but hey, you won't hear him complain. Lydia Martin in jeans, standing chest to chest with him; oh this is what heavens are made up of. She hooks her forefingers through the belt loops in his jeans, and pulls him closer still.  _Holy Lord, is this even allowed?_  Reaching up on her toes, she brings her face next to his, and leans forward to whisper in his ear, "Like what you see, Stilinski?"

This is so mad, and so completely ridiculous. They are standing in the middle of a hallway, she is wearing jeans,  _jeans for crying out loud!_  They are standing chest to chest in plain view of maybe four hundred kids and she is teasing him on pieces of clothing that probably nobody in the history of relationshiphood would have been teased over.

Stiles tries to think quickly of something witty to say. He is good at this, isn't he? One-liners are basically his  _thing_. Scott has glowing, red eyes and Stiles has a smart mouth. His brain however, is going through a technical failure because of all this ridiculous sensory overload. And before Stiles can form a decent coherent response, Lydia speaks up again, "Want to see something better?" Her voice is low and raspy, and he can actually  _hear_  the smirk that must be undoubtedly clinging to her lips. Because she  _knows_ she is teasing. Stiles clenches his eyes shut, to gain some sort of control in all this madness. He places his hands on her hip and his fingers move against the rough material of her jeans, he breathes in her perfume and she is standing so close, that her body heat is engulfing him. Her voice is whispering across his skin and the previous hinting, has his throat trying to constrict his whimpering. No whimpering as of now. He won't give in  _that_  easily.

Suddenly Lydia moves back, enough that at least their position seems decent in the middle of a school corridor. The only contact, now, is Stiles' hands on her hip. She has removed her fingers from his belt loops and is now using them to comb her hair and gather them up to tie in a pony-tail. Stiles has absolutely not a single idea what caused the sudden change but he is too caught up in recollecting himself to actually ask.

The confusion however lasts only as long as Lydia has her hand in her hair, because the moment Lydia ties it up in a high pony-tail, Stiles almost groans.

There is a bruise on the left side of her neck. Turning purple.

Bruise.

Love-bite.

Hickey.

From, last night.

Stiles coughs to stop himself from choking at the sight. She has her arms crossed and she is openly smirking. The bruise probably visible to anyone who even so much as glances their way. If Stiles Stilinski dies right now, he will be a happy man. And a deeply frustrated one. But happy all the same.

"You... you have a," he gestures towards his own neck, then to her neck, then back to his,  _"hickey."_ He says almost as if he can't believe this. And well, he really can't.

"Yeah," she quips immediately, unlike him, her voice completely in control, "you would know. You were there when you left it."

Stiles gulps. He was definitely  _there_  when he left it, yeah. Oh man, definitely,  _definitely_  there.

"You're doing this on purpose!" He hisses at her accusingly, fingers still caressing her left hip.

She clenches her bottom lip with her teeth - which really doesn't help Stiles' situation at all - and her face is proudly wearing that expression of mischief that Stiles has come to love.

And then in the most faux innocent voices of all the faux innocent voice, Lydia replies, "I have no idea what you're talking about Stiles."

"Lydia you have no -" But whatever Stiles was going to say is cut short by the bell signalling the first class of the day. He hates rude interruptions, he decides.

Lydia suddenly comes close again, and then bends down to kiss the corner of his mouth. She lingers there, longer than strictly necessary. Her tongue peeks out enough to lick the edge of his lips and without a word she is out of his clutch and rushing to class. Hair still in a high pony-tail.

Stiles is left standing, looking at her back.

Lydia Martin in jeans, with a light bruise on her neck and Stiles Stilinski couldn't wait for school to end.

 

 

**Reviews would be lovely. And I will be taking prompts,[here](http://raggedyism.tumblr.com/ask). Thanks!**


	4. Interruptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teen Wolf isn't mine.

She tied up the laces on her converse and grabbed the apron on the counter. Lydia Marin can save your life while she parades away in high heels, but she needs comfort to serve coffee around here. Credit Card debt finally reached alarming rates of high, and Lydia decided that if she took a crappy, low-paying job somewhere, that would be enough to stop her mom from constantly reminding her about her financial irresponsibility. Well it wasn't enough. Her mother still complains about how Lydia should adopt more maturity, since she is  _seventeen_  now, but at least, Lydia sighs, she now has the I-work-and-go-to-school argument.

So on a Saturday morning, she prepares herself for the breakfast crowd that she usually doesn't have to deal with because she takes the evening shift during weekdays. She smiles at Hannah as she steps up to join her, behind the counter of this small coffee shop located in a sparsely crowded corner of Beacon Hills.

She picks on an idle thread peeking out from the edge of her simple, black apron as she waits for the first customer to arrive. It's not like she  _hates_  the job. She is fine with it. Really, this is the best she could have gotten with such flexible working hours. It's just that this job offers her pretty much  _nothing_. No theories, no heated debates over Darwin's theory of evolution, no running away from clawed monsters on her hunt. It was mundane and boring and ordinary. It was just so  _normal_.

She is suddenly broken out of her chain of thought by the  _ding_  of the little bell situated over the main entrance door, indicating someone's arrival. She lifts up her head only to be met with brown eyes that appear to have a streak of sunray swirling amongst the darker hues.

"What are you doing here?" she asks instinctively. She hadn't told  _anybody_  from the pack about this job. Literally no one. It's not like Lydia Martin would straight up admit to somebody that she needs financial help. No, thank you very much.

The customer however, turns towards Hannah, and with amusement lacing his tone he asks, "Is this usually how you greet customers around here?" Using his hand to indicate towards Lydia.

"Stiles!"Lydia interrupts before Hannah could apologize on her behalf. "Please leave," she requests in the most sickly sweet tone she can muster.

Ever since three months ago, after Stiles and Malia had made peace with their break-up, Lydia and Stiles had been dancing this dangerous dance. There was something brewing. There is always something brewing with the two of them. And it is not like she doesn't like him. She  _does_  like him. She is completely aware of it and she has absolutely no problems admitting it to herself. She likes Stiles Stilinski. She was also pretty sure that Stiles Stilinski likes her too. But they have been teasing and flirting and walking around the edges for so long, this has now become an issue of the egos about who admits it first. And she certainly won't be the one to do it.

"Seriously, what's with the customer care in this place?" Stiles asks, lips turning upwards. And Hannah, who probably has smelled some sort of history here doesn't even try to formulate a response this time around. Choosing instead to let out a little chuckle. Lydia throws her a glare for good measure.

"Stiles really, get out!" Lydia says as she makes her way to the other side of the counter.

"Complete savages here, I tell you, completely - Ow!" Before Stiles could elaborate on the terrible staff training, Lydia had grabbed hold of Stiles' ear and was using it as leverage to pull Stiles towards the main entrance, while Hannah couldn't control her chortles in the background. "Ow, Lydia ouch!" Stiles halts his steps and his weight is too much for Lydia to pull on her own so she lets go of his ear in resignation and takes a deep breath to calm herself down.

"Why are you here, Stiles?" She sighs. This job is important to whatever psychological assurance it keeps her mother under. And she can't have Stiles Stilinski walking his merry way in, turning this into a flirt galore.

"I just want some coffee," he replies innocently, corner of the his lips still tilted upwards.

"You don't even  _like_ coffee," Lydia hisses, her calm facade crumbling rapidly.

"In that case," Stiles pulls a chair, and sits himself down, back leaning against the back-rest casually, "I'll just take the muffin."

"You don't want the muffin!" She berates.

"Why would you even say that? Of course I want a muffin."

Lydia tries to keep her calm. She closes her eyes and breathes in. Then exhales. Stiles just watches her with amused interest.

"Which one?"

That probably takes Stiles by surprise because he takes a while before answering this, "What?"

"Muffin," Lydia clarifies, complimenting her sweet smile with eyes that are throwing daggers at him. "Which one do you want?"

Stiles leans his chair back a little, to look at the counter where a bunch of muffins are kept on display behind a glass window. "The chocolate chip one," he decides.

Hannah chuckles at his antics. He waves at her in response. Lydia seethes in frustration.

"So  _you're_  Stiles," Hannah finally greets him.

Stiles' chair falls back down on its fore-legs with a definite  _thump_. He looks up at Lydia smugly. "You mention me at work?"

"Only when someone drops something," Lydia replies scathingly.

"Ouch. Rude." He admonishes, tapping the back of her hand.

"I am poisoning your muffin," Lydia replies shortly.

His eyes widens and he bites his lips to stop his laughter from escaping him. "You have got poison around here?"

"We've got rat poison," She clarifies.

"But I am not a rat." Stiles argues back, clearly enjoying this.

Lydia leans down so Hannah won't be able to catch her reply, and fiercely she tells him, "Well, you aren't a werewolf either so it's not like it won't hurt you."

Their faces are inches away. Stiles taps her nose with his pointer this time. "Very rude," he says loudly.

Lydia straightens up, "I can also leave a little piece of glass in it," she says thoughtfully. "That would hurt."

"I'll sue," Stiles replies, shrugging.

Lydia remains quite, then after a moment she drops her head, defeated.

Stiles' grin fades. He takes her hand into his, and pulls so that she steps closer. Rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb, he tells her, "I'll behave, I promise." He continues to rub little soothing circles.

After a moment of comfortable silence she pulls her hand back. "I hope you choke on the muffin," she mutters as she begins to walk towards the counter to retrieve his order.

Stiles lets out a bark of laughter. With her back to him, Lydia smiles at the sound.

"Love the apron, Lydia," he calls after her.

"I hope you get a stomach ache." She replies loudly.

"And the converse!"

"May you throw up all night."

Stiles laughs. And searching for his muffin, her face hidden from him, Lydia lets out a quiet chortle of her own.


	5. Slightly Worrisome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teen Wolf not mine.

"You said it was something supernatural!" He whispers accusingly, as his girlfriend lightly nips on his pulse point while his hands desperately clutch the back of her shirt.

"And Hitler said he wouldn't try to invade Poland," her breath is laboured and dances along the skin stretching over his collar bone so deliciously, he hears himself groan. Using the hand not clutching her clothes for dear life, he cups her face and brings his lips down to hers in a heated frenzy.

"Lydia, sixty million -," he hears her moan at the vibrations that talking against her mouth are causing, "sixty million people died in consequence of that." He pulls her closer still, using the hand on her back as leverage.

Lydia's hands are on his collar, and his tongue is exploring, yet again, every curve and crevice of her mouth. Lydia sighs and pulls back when oxygen becomes vital. He however, uses the opportunity to tilt her head to the side and attack the skin on her neck with little nips and kisses. He would bite on it, and then his tongue would peek out to soothe the previously burning sensation. And if Lydia's breathing pattern was anything to go by, she wouldn't be interrupting his ministrations any time soon.

Teasingly she tugs at his hair, "Are you worried, Stilinski?"

She is challenging him. And he has already taken the bait. So without removing his mouth from its position at her neck, he smirks. The air from his nose ghosting over her heated skin, as she feels his lips stretch on it. "At the prospect of kissing my girlfriend in my dad's office, in the middle of the night?" his tongue peeks out to lick her neck, "very."

There are only three constables on duty tonight, since things have been surprisingly pretty quiet in the police department lately. So when Lydia had conned Stiles into the Sherriff's office, Stiles hadn't been too hesitant to fall in step with her rather ambitious, romantic escapade.

Three officers. One on the graveyard shift. One on the helpline at the front desk. And a third, that Stiles caught sight of, losing sleep over some paper work. Even then, if one of them detects any sort of activity behind the locked doors of his dad's office, there would be trouble.

She giggles, actually properly giggles. And Stiles feels himself smile against her, now sensitive, skin.

Raising his head to look her in the eye, Stiles whispers, "You know why this is funny?" Lydia shakes her head, pulling him by the collar back to where he was, Stiles in response, grabs her hips and lifts her so that she is seated on the desk. He then steps between her legs. Kissing her lips one, two, three times, just enough to make her keen for more. "Absolutely no one will believe that this wasn't my fault," he sighs, amused, their foreheads pressed together.

Lydia snorts in mirth. She begins to kiss his jaw, and Stiles' grasp on her skirt-clad hip tightens. Making her path to his ear, she reaches the lobe and lightly sucks on it before she grabs it between her teeth and pulls. Stiles hisses. "You bring girls into your dad's office, often?" She whispers in his hear, her tone playful.

"No," Stiles finds his voice to respond. "But I cause enough havoc around here, often." She giggles at all the previous memories. Stiles pulls her closer at the sound so that  _her_  fronts is pressed flushed against  _his_  front. He runs his pointer on the back of her neck and Lydia throws her head back in response. Sensing opportunity he drops his head down and licks a trail up the hollow of her neck. Lydia mewls in gratification. "You are the girl who gets distressed after finding dead bodies," he breathes onto her skin, and then nips at the point just where the fabric of her shirt ends. He unbuttons the first button on her shirt, and Lydia crosses her legs around his hips pulling him closer still. "I am the Sherriff's son who got a restraining order when he was sixteen."

He looks up at her, and her face is flushed, head thrown back, eyes clenched in anticipation. She looks breath taking. When he just stands there, not doing anything, choosing instead to stare at her before him, knowing she has allowed herself to be so vulnerable  _for_  him, she opens her eyes. They are liquid forests. Shining and bright and green and swirling.

"Well, Stiles," she says, pulling back a little, mischief playing on her pink, plush lips. "If you're so worried," she begins to bring her hands to the button, Stiles had just unbuttoned moments earlier. "I think we could just leave." He quickly lunges to grab her hand.

"Not  _that_  worried," he breathes, smirking. Tugging her hand to pull her back towards him.

Lydia's laughter is smothered as Stiles brings his lips back down to hers.

 

**Reminder:[Taking prompts for this series.](http://raggedyism.tumblr.com/ask)**


	6. Shenanigans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:  
> Anonymous asked: stiles and lydia getting drunk together, a game of dares ensues?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this a while (2 years) back.  
> Compatible with season 4 dynamics. 
> 
> I am always so afraid of writing drunk scenes because I have never really been drunk so I have no idea how the dynamic should work. But I tried.

He shook his head violently from one side to the other, which in turn caused dizziness and that awful,  _awful_  feeling of your brain losing all its position wiring and now just rolling around in your skull like a ball of fluff which causes that numbing headache and partial blindness, so in retrospect that rather exuberant gesture to show his disagreement was a bad idea. “No,” he says anyway.

“No?” she asks, sitting beside him in his beat-down, blue vehicle that should have probably given up on his supernatural misadventures a long time ago. But no, the old, worn out four-wheel miracle was as adamant as its owner. So they sit in it, side by side, parked on a deserted road somewhere, one empty alcohol bottle lying on the back seat, one half full one in Lydia Martin’s perfectly manicured, right hand. She takes a swig.

“No,” he replies again, this time foregoing the head movement and sparing himself the pain.

“Stiles Stilinski would give up on a dare?” She asks, mock surprised and putting on a rather stunning show by gaping at him with wide eyes. He takes the bottle from her hands, puts it to his mouth, throws his head back, and winces as the liquid burns down his throat.

“Stiles Stilinski would definitely not prank call the Sheriff’s station,” he replies, looking at her. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are shining with mirth and her lips are threatening to turn upwards and release the laughter she is holding in her chest. Lydia Martin is halfway drunk. Perhaps three quarters. He is too. They are somewhere on that road to drunkenness. Almost there.

“Coward,” she taunts him, reaching out for the bottle of vodka, only to have him pull his hand away and take another gulp of it. She snatches it while it’s still connected to his lips and the liquid spills out. Uncaring, she puts it to her own lips and turns the bottle upwards, looking at him from the corner of her eyes as he wipes his mouth with the end of his sleeve. “I challenged that security guard back at the gas station to arm wrestle with me,” she reminds him.

Stiles snorts. “And he in turn led you to the car and asked me to drive you home.”

“You dared me to ask him to arm wrestle him, I did,” she replies.

Stiles laughs at him, she slaps him on the chest, laughter escaping from her mouth while her eyes seem indignant. “I dared you to arm-wrestle him,” he says, gesturing with his hand for the bottle. She hands it to him. He turns it around in his hand, watching the liquid slosh against the glass walls.

“I did ask!”

“You didn’t wrestle,”

“Blame the patriarchy!”

He chokes on the liquid he had just sipped in. He wants to laugh but he is descending into a coughing fit but he wants to laugh anyway so he is definitely coughing but there is also something akin to laughter in their somewhere. Which triggers Lydia’s laughing fit. He is choking and she is laughing and he should probably take offense but she is drunk and he is drunk and just blame the patriarchy for this.

“Men thinking girls are weak enough to not take them in an arm-wrestling match,” she complains amidst her drunk, nonsensical laughter.

“Lydia, you _wouldn’t_  have been able to take him!” And then he descends into another round of manic laughter and Lydia spirals alongside. His eyes begin to water and his sides hurt and his chest is heaving. He clutches the bottle in one hand, his stomach with the other.

"That’s not the point!” she informs him, wisps of laughter still escaping her mouth. “Are you taking me up on my dare or not?” she asks.

“Your dare,” he turns to the side and points his free hand at her, “will get me disowned.”

She punches him in the arm. It doesn’t hurt. She wouldn’t have been able to take on that security guard.

“I am not thinking of another dare,” she tells him, taking the bottle from his hands.

“I am not prank calling my dad with assassins on the loose.”

“I am seventeen and professional assassins have been hired to kill me -”

“Put that in your resumé.”

“Oh you’re just jealous,” she pokes him in the thigh.

“Ah yes, you get to be on a hit list at seventeen while mortals like us get drunk over a break up.” He tells her, smile playing on his lips, his heart weighing heavy in the chest. Malia broke up with him. Yesterday. And well, break-ups hurt as he had now come to understand.

“I am valued right after the true alpha, pretty puffed about that to be honest,” she tries to joke.

He snorts and hangs his head, without replying. She looks at him with a sympathetic smile, and offers him the bottle without taking a sip of her own this time around. He takes it and raises it in a mock toast before bringing it to his mouth.

“We should have told her,” she says softly, hand coming to pat down his hair.

“About Peter?”

“No, about academic counselling,” she says, pulling on the strands lightly.

“Oh let’s see,” he turns to look at her again, “Malia, your dad killed your cousin and ripped her body in half so that his eyes would glow red, then bit Scott without any consent whatsoever. He then went on a homicidal rage around Beacon Hills. We set him on fire and then your broody cousin - the alive one - ripped his throat. But hey, look at him, alive and well sauntering away in ever deepening V-necks because he possessed Lydia into bringing him back from the dead. I hope the parent-child bonding sessions are fun!”

“Stiles -”

“And hey, that’s not it, because not only is he manipulative and halfway psychotic he is also useless. The only person whom we could have thanked him for killing came back as a were-jaguar.”

He is heaving by the end of it and Lydia is staring at him, her lip quivering.

“Don’t laugh!” he warns her.

“I am not!” she says, her voice wavering with the weight of holding back her mirth.

“A were-jaguar, Lydia. A _were-jaguar._ ” That does it for Lydia. She starts to laugh and he starts to laugh with her. Because one of them is on a hit-list. There are assassins out to kill people. A were-jaguar is roaming the streets. Not to mention the berserkers. And they really shouldn’t be laughing because their life is on the line. But Holy Lord, they are teenagers and there is only so much they can take before breaking. And if they had to break, rather it be by laughing than losing their minds. They are drunk. Very much so, now. He takes another swing anyway.

“Call her,” Lydia tells him, taking in heaving breaths to control her laughter.

“Kate?” he asks her, incredulous, eyes widening.

“No, you idiot!” she says, taking the bottle from him, “Call Malia!”

He takes a while before replying. “No,” he says then.

“That’s my dare!” Lydia tells him, shifting her body so that they sit sideways on the seats completely facing each other, “Call Malia and tell her everything.”

“I am not drunk-dialling an ex,” he says.

“I changed my dare for you!”

“Have you ever drunk-dialled anyone?” he asks suddenly.

“No,” she replies shortly.

“Has someone ever drunk dialled you?”

“We were playing dares,” she says, ignoring the question, “why had it turned to truths with me on the wrong end?”

“I’d do it,” he tells her. “If we break up, I will drunk dial you.”

“Thanks,” she says, instantly, “I will keep that in mind.”

“I am serious,” he says, bringing his hand to rest on the back of her seat, “Lydia Martin, if we ever break up, I am probably going to drunk dial you.”

They are drunk. They are so _so_  drunk. Because perhaps none of them have realized what Stiles Stilinski just said. But he has said it. And like words go, you can never really take them back.

They are quiet for a moment.

“Still not going to call the Sheriff station?” she asks him, hope lacing her voice.

“No,” he replies adamantly, shaking his head.

In the morning, perhaps when they think over it they will realize, that for breaking up, they’ll have to come together. Perhaps they will realize that they can be together and they can grow apart and even after all of that Stiles Stilinski will call her and ask her to give it another shot. Perhaps they will realize that Lydia Martin willingly admitted that she will remember that he promised to call.

Or maybe in the morning Stiles will actually try to talk to Malia again. And Lydia would try to help her friends again. And promptly they will add this conversation to the ever-growing list of things that they never talked about.

But there will come a day when they will think over it, and they will realize that even when they can’t think straight, they think of each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback makes me happy!


End file.
